


The Sound of Silence

by colisahotnorthernmess



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Drinking & Talking, First Time, Hand Jobs, Kissing, M/M, Undressing, slight daddy kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-20
Updated: 2019-02-20
Packaged: 2019-10-31 13:07:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17850014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/colisahotnorthernmess/pseuds/colisahotnorthernmess
Summary: When the young officer had suggested he come round for a drink or two and a catch-up, Fred had said he "wouldn't be much company" - and, by gosh, he was certainly right. Morse rolled his eyes, seeing, in the process, how thoroughly quiet and empty Fred's abode currently was. "Where's Mrs. Thursday?" he took a sip of the golden liquid, thoughtfully."Out." The answer was curt."Oh." Endeavour didn't dare ask."It's so bloody quiet all the time," Fred spat.Set during the 'Apollo' episode.





	The Sound of Silence

"I've missed you... We _all_ have," well, by _all_ , he meant himself and Bright - their newer colleagues were not yet quite as fond of Morse as his old ones were, and that was an understatement. "It's good to have you back, lad," though his words were inarguably sincere, they had been a long time in coming.

"And it's taken _how_ many glasses of whisky for you to tell me that?" Endeavour asked him. Thursday certainly hadn't missed _that_. Since his return, Morse had become more opinionated than ever, the chip on his shoulder had tripled in size, and his attitude had nearly gotten the pair of them into trouble with the new DCI on _more_ than one occasion.

"Oh, don't start with all that," Fred slammed his tumbler down on the table. "I've got enough on my plate," he grumbled.

When the young officer had suggested he come round for a drink or two and a catch-up, Fred had said he "wouldn't be much company" - and, by gosh, he was _certainly_ right. Morse rolled his eyes, seeing, in the process, how thoroughly quiet and empty Fred's abode currently was. "Where's Mrs. Thursday?" he took a sip of the golden liquid, thoughtfully.

"Out." The answer was curt.

"Oh." Endeavour didn't dare ask.

"It's so bloody quiet all the time," Fred spat, starting to become angry, though who he was angry at was anybody's guess - angry at _himself_ most likely, it occurred to Morse - what with the demotion following George Fancy's death, and how he was now supposed to be on light duties - the _shame_ of it, for a copper like him. "I can't stand the silence in here," he murmured, rising from his armchair.

He plonked the bottle of Scotch on the table, so that Morse could help himself to another. He didn't say whether or not he wanted one also; he simply whispered: "I won't be a minute."

He was _several_ , actually. When he'd said he was leaving, Endeavour's eyes fell upon the clock, absent-mindedly checking the time. He began to scour the room; the place hadn't changed much - the same dreary old-fashioned wallpaper, the same dark furniture - it was the late 60's and, while the avant-garde were experimenting with psychedelic colours and Scandinavian furniture, the Thursday household was stuck in time.

And Endeavour's eyes had fallen upon the clock again; it was ticking wildly, time moving all too quickly - much as it did after a few alcoholic beverages - but even _he_ could see, through the fog of his mild drunkenness, that Thursday had been gone for some time now. And he knew that it wasn't his place, but he left the room, checking the kitchen for any signs of life before scaling the stairs.

The wooden stairs creaked heavily as he trod the floorboards, giving him away. There was no point in trying to pretend he was anywhere but where he was, anyway. "Sir," he called out, warily, reaching the landing. No answer, unsurprisingly. He slowly opened the bedroom door to find his old policeman friend sitting on the bed, staring into space. "Sir," he repeated, sitting down.

"Morse?" Thursday looked at him through tearful eyes, salty water clogging his eyelashes - eyelashes far more beautiful than Morse had ever realised. Seeing the younger man's shock at such emotion from himself - the usually _strong_ , unbreakable figure, his stare retreated to his hands, which were in his lap. "I-- I just can't stand this silence all of the time," he told him once again. "It's driving me up the wall."

Endeavour didn't think twice about what he was going to do; he _loved_ Fred. He wrapped a long, thin arm around him and pulled him close. Feeling a muffled sob against his shoulder, he squeezed tighter and, as he did so, the sound of the cries seem to increase. But this was what he wanted; Thursday was letting it all go. He hardly ever saw his daughter Joan these days, and now he was seeing less and less of Win. But having Morse here seemed to make everything _right_ for Fred. Maybe things could go back to the way they were?

Morse always seemed to hold the key when it came to solving cases, but would he have the key when it came to solving _Fred's?_

Thursday wasn't sure why such a conclusion saw him kissing Endeavour now directly on the lips - nothing fancy, as if such a thing would be expected of Fred - no tongues, no frills - just a hard, firm and hungry kiss which pushed Endeavour right back into the pillows, huge hands holding him down by his slim hips. He clumsily tugged at his tie, but he was all fingers and thumbs, still a little shaken from his recent incident and most _definitely_ shaken by the dirty thoughts currently cycling through his mind. He growled as he found himself unable to undo Morse's clothing.

"Let me," there was a squeak from now-freed lips. Endeavour carefully undid his own tie, unlooping the silky fabric, slowly and seductively as he held Fred's gaze. Fred could hardly _stand_ it; he dragged Morse's trousers down to where they became stuck at his shoes, at the foot of the bed.

The auburn-haired man, even under the influence of several whiskies, had been for the main part presentable - bar for his tie askew and his shirt collar undone - but now he was a complete mess, and it had only been a matter of seconds. Fred licked his lips in approval as he saw Endeavour lying there, his usually combed hair out of place as it ruffled against the pillow. The fact that it was Win's side of the bed made it all the more arousing to Fred in a wicked sort of way.

Morse was somehow both simultaneously dressed and undressed; his shirt was open, a glimpse of chest peeking out, heaving up and down, skinny and pale. And his trousers and briefs were around his ankles, his arousal now on-show and evident to his senior. He suddenly felt exposed, and that was because he _was_. "Wu--Where _is_ Mrs. Thursday this evening?" he stammered. An absolute passion killer, he realised, but the last thing he wanted was to be found like this, Fred's frantic hands undressing him, tearing at his clothes, eager to reach bare skin.

"There's no need to worry about that," he said, slightly breathless, "She won't be back for a while." He focussed on Endeavour's dishevelled, contorted form, writhing within the sheets - eyes on every part of him - _anything_ to quell the sadness he felt in his heart as he spoke those words; _anything_ to quash the guilt he felt when he thought of Win's face.

This was especially the feeling as his line of vision dropped to Morse's crotch, his penis hard and standing like a begging dog,  _craving_ the attention of its doting owner. Thursday carefully ran his fingers along the inside of his lover's inner thigh, toying with the soft gingerish hair which led to the scrotum. He cradled Endeavour's balls in the palm of his large hand and then grasped at his erection, squeezing and teasing as fingers slid from base to tip.

Morse grunted, bucked upwards. He _belonged_ to Fred. "There's a good lad," he told him, his voice gruff, as if he hadn't spoken all day - as if he hadn't really had anything to _say_ up until now and, in a way, he _hadn't_. "A beautiful boy," there was a break in his actions; he reached up to touch Morse's face, tenderly. "A boy no more, perhaps," he laughed gently, stroking at his moustache with a finger.

"No," the sergeant gasped, pulling Thursday forward by one of his braces until they were almost face-to-face, " _Always_ your boy, Sir.... _Always_..." And then he kissed him again - this time taking the lead - and thrusting himself into the older man's mouth, a muffled noise of delight as he tasted the liquor and pipe tobacco, their tongues dancing in unison.

Morse wondered if Thursday had ever kissed Win this way; wondered if he'd kissed _anyone_ this way, and then mentally berated himself for it. But how could he help it? He wanted Fred so _desperately_ to love him - more than he wanted Joan; more than he'd wanted _any_ woman. Endeavour wanted to say _all_ of this but he simply mewled, coming undone as he reached his climax, all over Fred's hand, all over himself and the bed.

Thursday found it impossible to completely lose himself in the moment, even though he, himself, ached for release. But he was enchanted with the sight before him - so much so that he almost forgot the staining to the sheets he was so frenetically scrubbing with his hand, trying to blend it into the bedspread pattern; his young sergeant worn out from their sexual exploits, lying sprawled and exhausted, in the position where his _wife_ would usually sleep.

And Morse's blissful expression would be etched into his mind's eye all throughout the following day, during work, as he tried - in vain - to shake it off and focus instead on the case at hand. The governor broke his train of thought, as they walked back to the car: "I hope you know what you're doing," he'd said, amongst other things, but that was the only thing Fred had truly heard. God knows - Thursday rather hoped, in spite of everything, that he really  _did know_ what he was doing.


End file.
